


Interviewing Arthur

by Phoenix_Rose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bullying, Childhood Trauma, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Sherlock's Childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Rose/pseuds/Phoenix_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lestrade called in Sherlock Holmes, he usually did it with annoyance with the insults, but with the knowledge he'd have the case solved. This time, he wasn't so sure. It was only an interview, but Sherlock could do a lot of damage with an interview... He could only hope he didn't traumatise the poor boy more.</p><p>Yeah, I'm mean. A one shot that's angsty. Please read the tags!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interviewing Arthur

It had been a tiring day.

That was Lestrade’s excuse for bringing Sherlock Bloody Holmes to this case - the one type of case he had vowed never to let the High-Functioning Sociopath. To put it in the ever eloquent Sergeant Sally Donovan’s words, “The Freak will traumatise him more!”   
But he really needed this case solving as soon as possible, and dear Lord they needed him to come and work his magic. Even if Anderson threatened to strike if the man was let within three miles of the boy. And if Donovan threatened to call Child Services if the man so much as looked at the kid wrong. And even when John -  _ fuck, even John was against it!  _ \- tried to politely get across that the Consulting Detective had been even more Socially Inapropriate recently. Or as the two flatmates called it between themselves,  _ a Bit not good. _

But desperate times called for desperate measures, and so in swept the very man, clad in belstaff coat and scarf. Just like usual. He sneered as Lestrade stressed to him that the situation was delicate, and that if he put one foot out of line he would be removed. He rolled his eyes as John pulled him aside to remind him that  _ this kid’s been through a lot… don’t make it worse _ . He sniffed in disdain when Donovan threatened him, whilst also managing to get in three comments on the state of her knees, plus a bonus point about Anderson’s deodorant. It was like nothing was different, even though  _ everything  _ was different about this one. 

Lestrade had no doubt that in thirty seconds they’d be dealing with a sobbing child.

Sherlock entered the observation room, separated from the force by a two way mirror. The child sat in front of him, eyes down and body as far away as physically possible.   
“May I take that chair?”   
His deep rumbling voice came out in a gentler tone than usual, taking the observers by surprise. They stayed quiet, waiting to see what was going on.    
The boy had nodded silently, and the world’s only Consulting Detective walked over to the table where he was sat, resting one gloved hand on top.  
“Do you want me to take the chair further away?”   
_ No.  
_ “Do you want to talk?”   
_ No.  
_ “I’ll talk then. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I’ve been tasked with finding out what on earth happened to you. We both know that though, don’t we.”  
Wide hazel eyes met icy blue.  _ Do we?  
_ “I’m not going to ask you if you’re ok. I don’t like foolish questions.”  
A whimper from the depths of a child’s soul.  _ I’m not ok. I’m not ok. I’m not ok.  _ **_I’m not ok._   
** Silence reigned in the room for a good thirty seconds. Sherlock looked at the note he’d been given.  
“Your name is Arthur?”  
Blank stare, before a silent nod.  
“Would you like to hear a story, Arthur? You’ve not heard many before, have you?”

Behind the mirror the force took a simultaneous breath. He wasn’t about to launch into a tale of murder was he? Please Lord no.

“Once upon a time, was a girl called Little red Riding Hood, which is rather a mouthful, so from now on I‘ll call her Red. She was on her way to visit her Grandmother with cookies and chocolate and sweets, because her Grandmother was sick…”

Half an hour passed this way, one fairytale after another, until Arthur had crawled upon to the chair right besides Sherlock.  
“One more story, and then I’ll have to leave. Ok?”  
“Ok.”    


Gasps came from Donovan and Anderson. That was the first word anyone had got from Arthur since he’d arrived.

“Once upon a time was a boy called WIlliam. He wasn’t a happy boy, or a very lucky boy. In fact, he felt like the happiest unluckiest boy in the whole of England. Nobody in school liked him.”

_ “Freak! Look at the Freak squirm!”  
_ _ William recoiled under the force of yet another punch in the stomach. Bile raced to his throat and burned as he choked it up onto the ground he knelt on. He felt almost like apologising to the muck and leaves for the mess - the mud seemed to be valued more than he was. The excited yells of the tormenting crowd of children intensified at the sight, they revelled in the fact they could hurt him. He was better than they. That was what his brother had once said. They were all idiots, they couldn’t appreciate the value of his intelligence. He was smarter than they. It was simply a shame they were stronger than he. _

“He didn’t feel much better at home. His brother had stopped playing with him years ago.”

_ “Do you want to play pirates?”  
_ _ The excitable William was poking his curly head through the door, looking at his surly brother slogging away at his books. But his brother always had time for pirates - what was a Captain without his First Mate? A makeshift sword lay at his hip whilst a paper hat lay crooked on his head, and he offered his mate the second set. They’d slaved for months over a hot forge to make these (well, they’d spent twenty minutes taping cardboard whilst the sun shone down on them, but it was the same thing really.)  
_ _ “William, will you go away? I’m busy!”  
_ _ A pout.  
_ _ “But you’re always busy now.”  
_ _ With lightening speed the unruly mop of hair that was once at the door was now tickling his brother’s forehead, whilst the rest of him adjusted to his new position of dangling his faces inches in front of his brother’s whilst dangling precariously off of a shelf. He smirked, clearly proud of his effort. His brother never refused this, never ever ev-  
_ _ “I said  _ **_no_ ** _ William!”  
_ __ And without he was unceremoniously picked up and plopped back outside the door, nursing a bruised pride as well as a bruised botty.

“And his Mummy wasn’t much cop either.”

_ “Mummy! Mummy!”  
_ _ “Wha- What?”  
_ __ Out of the room stumbled the form of Mummy, her slurred words disturbed by hiccups. She made for an unpleasing image. Her makeup - which William knew had been pristine at one point… maybe the day before? - was smeared, with lipstick resembling a clown’s unnatural smile and mascara pooled liked oil in the creases of age and drink that marred her face. She was a mess.

_ It wasn’t her fault, William knew that as well as he knew his own name. She was sick. She was sad. She drank and drank and drank so that she’d forget her troubles. William’s troubles too. She didn’t like to remember that her life wasn’t perfect. That bad things happened to them. Bullies didn’t exist in her bubble of alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke. Neither did cheaters. She wasn’t oblivious, no. Once upon a time she’d been a brilliant mind, wrapped in a even better body. But both had faded with time, and she was well aware of her younger, prettier replacement. So she had whiskey and vodka stored away, and she’d drink rather than face the pain. _

_ William hated her. She was selfish. She wasn’t the only one with problems, why did she get to go to pieces? Why did she get to ignore his? He just wanted help for the nightmares, and here she was looking like one! He shook his silently and left, not noticing when Mummy fell to her knees in wracking sobs at her failure. Yes, she knew she was a failure, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. _

“And worse than Mummy was someone else. Worse than a monster under the bed or in the cupboard or in the toilet - which was where his brother had once tried to convince William they lived. This was a monster that lived in his house, a monster disguised as a man…”

_ “William!”  
_ _ He shivered, violently this time, trembling under the bed. It wouldn’t be long, he knew that. The monster always found him. Always. The monster lived with them. The monster knew all the best hiding places, and the rubbish ones too. It was hopeless to run, more so to hide, but he couldn’t not. It was instinct. He heard footsteps on the floor outside and curled tighter into a ball, trying to muffle his harried breaths and pounding heart. The door flew open with the power of a hurricane, and when it swung back from the force another dint marred the cream wall. It was nearly as badly scarred as William. The monster was strong, so very very strong. A muffled squeak escaped, and he knew he was lost. Nothing was missed by the ears of the monster. _

_ Hours later he crawled out of the basement, bruised and battered but silent. No wails. He’d learnt long ago that wails did nothing but make it worse next time. He choked his sobs most of the time. Sometimes he let one escape, but by then he was in his room. The monster usually ignored him then, and he had to pretend the monster didn’t exist. It was worse when he had to name the monster. He didn’t deserve the name, but he still demanded it: Daddy. _

“But when William was a bit older, he managed to escape to University and eventually he was mostly happy. There were still some nasty people who called him a Freak because he was smart, but at least they didn’t punch him anymore. The monster didn’t live in his house anymore… in fact he’d replaced him with an angel. He’d changed who his Mummy was… now it was his Landlady who treated him wonderfully. He was still stuck with his brother, and they still didn’t play pirates,” He smirked slightly, “But they still played the guessing game. And everything got better for him.”  
He paused.  
“How did William make himself happy? I just feel... scared.” The question came whispered from his captivated audience.   
“He did lots of things… lots and lots of little things. Some of them weren’t very good ideas…”

_ His hand shook as he poised the needle to enter his skin. He could imagine it already… the all consuming calm as the hit shot through his veins and hushed his mind. It was always so loud in there, but this made it better. It cost him a lot to keep this going. He’d already downsized to outside the tube station. Was it worth it? Plunging in the syringe in and slumping as it took hold, one last thought lingered.  
_ _ It might not be worth it, but it damn well felt like it was. _

“Some of them other people wouldn’t understand.”

_ “William? William?”  
_ _ “That’s not my name.”  
_ _ “What do you mean that’s not your name? That’s what all your records say.”  
_ _ He looked briefly into the face of his brother, before casting his blue orbs back to the floor. He’d kicked the drugs and got a house, but it was still a grubby little hovel. Not that he minded.  
_ _ “I can’t be bothered with deed poll. But William. is. not. my. name.”  
_ _ His brother seemed concerned. Then confused. Then just sad.  
_ _ “What is your name then?”  
_ _ His name. His name was important, his name was who he was now. William represented his past, the monster. His new name would represent the new him, the new future he had made. It wasn’t a totally new name… new enough to represent the future, old enough to still be him.  
_ _ “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”  
_ _ He lifted his head again, his steely eyes meeting the sympathetic ones of his brother.  
_ __ “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I would thank you to use it.”

“Some of them even he couldn’t understand.”

_ The first thing he did when he had money was buy a whole new wardrobe. Fancy clothes. Clothes that made him look arrogant. He knew he wasn’t handsome, but with these clothes he could pretend. (Yes fourth lady in the queue for the grocers, he saw you looking at the purple shirt.)  _

_ Apart from the clothes, he bought two more things. A thick belstaff coat and a woolen scarf. Soon he was wearing them everywhere. He didn’t know why, but they made him feel safe. His brother seemed to think he knew.  
_ _ “Aren’t you a little old for a comfort blanket, Brother mine?”  
_ __ But Sherlock knew that he was happy really. His brother was always happy if Sherlock was having a good day. Somedays he couldn’t bring himself to leave the house, and those were the days he saw that his brother had a point. Those were the days he sat in his room, wrapped in coat and scarf, fighting off assailants in his mind palace. But he was getting better, well enough to work. He was the only Consulting Detective in the world, he worked with Lestrade to solve crimes others were too stupid to. And that was good.

“But he got better.”  
“What does William do now?”  
Sherlock looked at the boy besides him.  
“William has a new name now, and a lovely flatmate, and a job he loves to bits. He sometimes works for the police. And one day, the police came to ask him to help find out what happened to a young boy called Arthur. They didn’t think he could do it. He wasn’t sure if he could either. So he went in and told the boy his new name-”  
“What’s his new name?”  
A small smile. Sherlock could see his own childhood curiosity (his adult curiosity) in Arthur.  
“He went in and introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes,”  
A wave of understanding hit Arthur, and he looked horrified. But then hopeful - if William… if Sherlock could be happy, maybe he could too! Sherlock was finishing his story,  
“And now he has a very important question for Arthur. Will he let him help?”

The case was concluded a week later, with Arthur’s parents jailed for physical and emotional abuse, as well as for the murder of Belinda May, their gardener. The judge told them they should not expect to ever be freed. Arthur went to live with his Grandmother in the states and grew up to live happily with his wife and daughter. He never forgot, however, the story of William, and once a month he received a letter recounting cases, the marriage of his flatmate and, as years went on, tales of retirement and beekeeping in the country. And Sherlock? He loved the replies, doting on Arthur almost like the child he never had. He got better and better still, with John and Lestrade helping them. Donovan and Anderson ceased to call him Freak, horrified when they realised what the word meant to him.

It was good.


End file.
